


Verisimilitude

by ineptshieldmaid



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Crossdressing, Cunnilingus, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Lingerie, Multi, Spanking, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-20
Updated: 2011-05-20
Packaged: 2017-10-19 14:45:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/201994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineptshieldmaid/pseuds/ineptshieldmaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one in which Eames wears ladies' underwear, and the ladies' underwear turns out to be only a very minor part of the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Verisimilitude

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to Trojie and Kayloulee.
> 
> Thanks to Trojie for alpha and beta-reading, and for lending me her libido when mine fucked off in the middle of writing and took my sense of erotic aesthetics with it. A large part of this fic was written on the principle of "what's attractive to Trojie?", and I think this turned out rather well.
> 
> Thanks to Kayloulee for beta-reading for misplaced body parts. Without her, Arthur's entire torso would have rotated 360 degrees at one point without his legs moving at all. Also, you may wish to know that in the course of the body-parts beta read I mimed every one of their positions on the edge of the couch, just it make sure it was all do-able. That's how we discovered Arthur's torso had done something improbable.
> 
> No common triggers to the best of my knowledge.
> 
> Not, I repeat *not*, related to "Side-wise, headlong" in any way.

Eames is wearing ladies’ underwear underneath cream trousers and a sensible brown belt. Ariadne only knows because she has her hand under the waistband of said trousers. They’re quite sensible, as ladies’ underwear goes, some sort of plain cotton, but there’s a lace trim under her fingers and, Ariadne is willing to bet, a tiny satin bow at the front. She nips at Eames’ lip, amused, and he hums appreciatively, palms warm against the small of her back.

There’s a cough behind her, and Ariadne draws back a little. Arthur is watching them, car keys in hand. Ariadne presses another kiss to Eames’ mouth, which curves in a smirk under hers. She squeezes his ass cheek gently, and extracts her hand. Arthur follows it with his eyes.

‘Just checking he’s wearing underwear,’ Ariadne says, brightly.

‘If that’s what you call it,’ Arthur says, raising his eyebrows a little.

Eames is wearing ladies’ underwear, and Arthur doesn’t know it. Arthur kisses Eames politely on the cheek, and receives a rather less polite kiss in return - nothing demanding, but full of promise. Something hot and shivery settles at the base of Ariadne’s spine, and she’s not sure if it’s because they look _good_ together, or because all the while Eames is kissing Arthur, Eames is wearing ladies’ underwear, and Arthur doesn’t know it.

* * *

Dinner is an experience. Ariadne wasn’t quite sure what she was expecting, something like a team dinner if they’re lucky, and horrifically awkward if they’re not. What she gets is surprisingly... normal. Where ‘normal’ encompasses Arthur taking Ariadne and Eames out to moderately fancy seafood restaurants, Eames feeling her up during the first course, Arthur being a perfect gentleman, and Eames wearing ladies’ underwear.

Ariadne has been - has been _sleeping with_ Eames and Arthur, for want of a better word, for about three weeks. Or maybe six. Or three months. It depends on whether you counted that risky, exhausted night in LA which actually _was_ all about sleeping, and whether you take into account the fact that she’s been having sex, no sleeping required, with Eames for twice as long as she has Arthur.

At any rate, on this day, approximately three weeks into the phase of life known as Ariadne Sleeping With Eames _And_ Arthur, Eames is wearing ladies’ underwear. Ariadne isn’t quite sure how she feels about that: her own panties she regards as a practicality to be removed, or, on at least one memorable occasion, wrenched aside to make room for Eames’ nimble fingers and wicked tongue. Eames’ panties are an unknown quantity, and Ariadne keeps finding her thoughts wandering away from the food and the boys’ easy banter, and back to the question of Eames’ underwear.

* * *

They stumble back into the hotel, into Ariadne’s room, in a tangle of limbs and hands. Ariadne ends up with her back to the wall, Arthur pressed all up against her front, and it’s _fantastic_. God. She could do this forever, this hot, close embrace, Arthur’s hands wrapped around her face and Arthur kissing her senseless. For a moment Ariadne pulls him in closer to her and knows she’s being greedy. Whatever it is she started with Eames and Arthur both, whatever it is that lead to Eames falling through her door with them: that means less of this, less plastering herself up against Arthur and trying to climb inside his skin and his alone.

And then Eames’ hands are right there between them, and, actually, it’s perfect. She doesn’t have to let go of Arthur to get his jacket off: she clings to him and whimpers while Eames eases the jacket off Arthur’s shoulders, and Eames yanks the shirt-tails out of Arthur’s pants so that Ariadne can get her hands up underneath them. Arthur goes tense as they wrestle the belly band holster off him, but Eames presses a kiss to the back of his neck.

‘I’ll take care of this,’ Eames says. ‘Ariadne?’

Ariadne shakes her head, preoccupied with Arthur’s skin under her hands. ‘Not tonight,’ she says. ‘Just Mace in my purse.’ Her gun’s in the top drawer; she figures she’s safe enough with Arthur and Eames.

Eames takes the guns somewhere - anywhere, Ariadne doesn’t care; Arthur is sucking on her earlobe, destroying what little remaining capacity for thought she has. She can just about manage to unbutton the front of his shirt while he works his way down the line of her jaw, and then she flattens her palm against his ribs, drawing shuddering breaths as he mouths at her neck, the hollow of her collarbone.

Then Arthur gets his hands under her ass and hoists her up against the wall, so she can wrap her legs properly around his waist. Ariadne goes with that, her hands cradling the back of Arthur’s head, keeping him close, close, closer. The novelty hasn’t worn off yet. Arthur doesn’t mix sex and work (unlike Eames, who mixes sex with everything, will take it neat or on the rocks or in cocktails with one part fear to three parts adrenaline), and then when they get the chance the two of them take off, away from the workshop and hotel, like any other couple going hand-in-hand through the streets of wherever they are and not thinking at all about hacking into someone else’s mind. It’s good, it’s lovely, but it doesn’t leave much time for this, the urgent need to commit one another to memory from the outside in which comes with something new, something fragile.

Eventually Arthur drags his mouth away from hers, and Ariadne’s eyes drift open. Arthur’s still holding her up, fingers digging into her, and Eames - Eames is standing just a few feet away from them, leaning on the too-small hotel table. He’s shirtless, is the first thing she notices; he’s placed Arthur’s weapons square on the table and his own beside them, and removed his shoes and socks. He’s standing there in just his trousers, and evidently he enjoys the view, because he’s rubbing the heel of his palm into his crotch. He sees Ariadne watching him, and smiles for her, wide and easy-going.

‘Arthur,’ Ariadne rasps, and Arthur makes a noncommittal noise, worrying at the skin of her throat with this teeth. ‘Eames is -’ and she means to say _Eames is watching us_ , honest to God she does, but what comes out is: ‘Eames is wearing ladies’ panties.’

Arthur almost drops her. Ariadne slithers awkwardly out of his hands and onto her own two feet again as Arthur turns around to take in the sight of Eames, shirtless and be-trousered, eyeing them both with open appreciation.

‘How d’you -’ he starts to ask, and then shuts up as Eames’ fingers settle on the button of his fly.

‘Checked him out earlier,’ Ariadne says, leaning back against the wall. She and Eames form a sort of frame, slouched against their respective props with Arthur between them. Eames flips the button undone, eyes skittering between Arthur and Ariadne, and he eases the zipper down, revealing a tiny sliver of peach-coloured panties.

Ariadne finds the buttons on her own trousers - why are women’s clothes always more complicated, anyway? - and follows suit. Eames picks up on what she’s doing, slides his hand in between his trousers and panties while he waits for her to catch up.

Ariadne’s never done this for Eames before, this undressing slowly for the sole purpose of being watched. It goes to her head, the slight darkening in his eyes and the broadening of his smirk in the seconds before Arthur tears his eyes away from Eames’ crotch to her and swears _fuck_ , stumbling sideways into the bed where he can watch them both at once.

Ariadne watches Eames and Eames watches Ariadne and Arthur watches both of them wriggle out of their trousers. Then Eames is naked but for his panties, stretched obscenely over his cock: and Ariadne is wearing inelegant knee-high stockings and high-heel shoes, the tails of her red blouse hanging down to her black briefs. They eye one another like that for a moment, Eames rubbing himself gently with the heel of his hand, Ariadne not quite game to follow suit, though she’s hot and aching already.

‘Just how long have you two been planning this?’ Arthur says, voice husky.

‘You’re overdressed,’ Eames says, which isn’t a reply at all. ‘Give the man a hand, Ariadne.’ Ariadne tips him a sloppy salute, never mind that the order sends a jolt of excitement straight through her gut. She scrambles up onto the bed behind Arthur so Eames can see them both and they can both see Eames, but Arthur cranes around to kiss her and both their shirts come off in a tangle of mouths and hands and slightly bouncy hotel mattress. Ariadne reaches down to strip her stockings off, steadying herself against Arthur’s shoulders.

‘Leave those,’ Eames says, when Arthur’s fingers skate over Ariadne’s panties, flirting with the edges of the fabric. Ariadne wriggles a bit, trying to get his fingers closer, up against her clit, but Arthur untwists himself to face Eames.

‘Are we taking his orders now, Ariadne?’ Arthur asks, but his eyes are on Eames, and Eames is looking right back at him. Ariadne presses herself against Arthur’s back, sliding her hand down his chest to toy with one nipple. Eames’ eyes track down to her fingers and flick up to her face, one raised eyebrow waiting on her answer.

She leans down to lick at the shell of Arthur’s ear, noting way Eames’ fingers twitch on his cock.  
‘For now,’ she says into Arthur’s ear, loud enough for Eames to hear. The smile which breaks across Eames’ face demands her own grin in return, that of co-conspirators in a barely-articulated conspiracy. She tweaks Arthur’s nipple just to feel him shudder against her, and Eames’ eyes follow her fingers inexorably.

‘Screw this, then,’ Eames says, and in two short steps he’s right up in their personal space, one foot on either side of Arthur’s, bracketing Arthur’s long legs with his big thighs.

‘Look at me,’ he says, and they both do, although it’s directed at Arthur. Arthur leans back into Ariadne, although whether for support or for a better angle she can’t tell.

‘What are you playing at, Eames?’ Arthur says, wary. Eames turns his palms upwards, the picture of sincerity, and says,

‘Nothing underhanded.’

‘That’d be a first,’ Arthur says, but he’s laughing, Ariadne can feel the rumble through his ribcage and against her chest. Eames doesn’t dignify that with a reply, just leans down and fits his mouth to Arthur’s. Arthur goes tense between them for a moment, and Ariadne feels a twinge of fear: maybe this was all a terrible idea, or they should have talked it through more carefully, laid out clear rules about who touches whom.

Then Arthur makes a hungry noise and grabs hold of Eames’ hips, yanking him in closer. Eames’ knees hit the edge of the mattress and Ariadne drops her free hand, the one which isn’t currently sandwiched between Eames and Arthur, down to rest on the broad muscle of his thigh. Arthur’s breath stutters under the palm of her hand on his chest as Eames kisses him, hard and messy and needy. Ariadne has a perfect view, Eames’ eyes closed and creased up in desperation, Eames’ big hand cradling Arthur’s cheek, Arthur’s delicate eyelashes fanned out across his skin. She scrapes her nails against Eames’ thigh, and tweaks Arthur’s nipple, by way of showing her appreciation, but they’re lost in one another.

It occurs to Ariadne that this is the first time she’s really seen them together, like this: not the first time they’ve had sex, no, but the first time she’s seen Arthur go to town on tiny patches of Eames’ skin like they’re the last thing he wants to taste in the world. This is one of the things they hadn’t discussed before - is it Ariadne with Arthur and with Eames, or something else, something more complex and treacherous?

Ariadne leans back, and Eames uses the extra space to push Arthur backwards a little, trying to limit the space between them. He makes frustrated little noises, shaking the mattress as he tries to grind down into Arthur despite the hindrance of various people’s knees and limbs. Neither Eames nor Arthur, Ariadne realises, are coherent enough to make this work right now.

‘Come here.’ She tugs on Arthur’s shoulders, eliciting whines of protest from both men. Eames’ eyes fix on her, vague with lust and open to suggestion. ‘Come here,’ she says, again, shimmying back on the bed, trying to drag Arthur with her. Eames catches on after a moment and shoves Arthur further up the bed. They land up more or less as Ariadne had intended, Arthur splayed out between her legs, head on her breasts, and Eames straddled across Arthur’s hips. Arthur wriggles and bucks up into Eames, who plants a firm hand on his hipbone.

‘Hold on,’ Eames says, as if he hadn’t been desperately scrabbling at the edge of the bed a moment ago. Still holding Arthur down with one hand, he flicks Arthur’s belt open with the other and tugs it free.

‘Pants off?’ Eames asks, looking at Ariadne, who grins back at him, nodding her agreement. She cards her fingers through Arthur’s hair. He makes pleased, breathy little noises while Eames strips him of his trousers, shoes and socks.

‘Leave those,’ Ariadne says, when Eames runs his hand up the hard line of Arthur’s cock through his briefs. They’re all down to their underwear now: Arthur’s briefs are white, and ridiculously expensive; Ariadne’s panties and bra are black and unremarkable. Eames’ panties are peach with a little bow on the front, and Arthur has his fingers under the hem at one side, fingering the lace border which strains awkwardly over Eames’ cock. His other hand creeps up behind his head to Ariadne’s breast, rubbing circles through the thin fabric of her bra.

‘All right, Ariadne?’ Eames asks, as Arthur’s thumb snags her nipple and sends tremors through her belly.

‘Yeah,’ she says, scraping her nails down the side of Arthur’s neck. Her voice comes out hoarse. ‘You two keep doing what you’re doing.’

‘What, this?’ Eames settles himself across Arthur’s hips again, underwear-clad cock to underwear-clad cock. He leans back so that Ariadne can get a good look, and it _is_ good, both of them hard and leaking through the fabric.

‘Fucking hell.’ Arthur grabs Eames by the arse and pulls him closer, drags him down so that Ariadne loses her line of sight - but she gets Eames’ face instead, eyes open for a few moments and focused on her as he and Arthur scrabble with one another. His face is gorgeous, blissed out and desperate. Ariadne can’t begrudge them when Arthur gives up on touching her to wrap his arm around Eames’ shoulders and cling to him, the pair of them wrapped together in a gasping, sweaty tangle across her lower body. Ariadne wriggles a little underneath them, thinks about working her hand between Arthur’s body and her own, down between her legs to give herself some relief. The angles are all wrong and she braces her hands on the men’s shoulders instead, one on Arthur and one on Eames, and lets the push-pull of their bodies travel up through her arms to her core.

She thinks she ought to be surprised at how much this turns her on, but it doesn’t feel surprising: it feels like the natural resolution of everything that’s passed between her and each of them. What she has with Eames is light-hearted and easy: they work well together, they drink shots and shoot pool and sometimes they fuck. Of course Eames wants Arthur, wants him as fiercely as Ariadne wants him: Arthur is the fixed point between them, the balance to Ariadne’s over-ambitious creativity and Eames’ unsteady genius. Now something of his steadiness is worn away, and he quivers beneath Eames and between Ariadne’s legs. Ariadne rakes her fingernails up the back of his neck, and Arthur spasms, digging his own nails into Eames’ skin in turn.

‘Fuck, Arthur.’ Eames’ forehead rests on Arthur’s shoulder, their bodies stilling for a moment to the barest rocking of hips.

‘Fuck,’ Ariadne echoes, tugging Eames’ hair until he looks up at her. ‘Fuck, both of you, fucking hell.’

Eames smiles at her, sweat-slick and oddly sweet. ‘He’s bloody gorgeous, Ariadne,’ he says, hand coming up to tangle with hers at the back of Arthur’s head. ‘You lucky, lucky woman.’

‘ _You’re_ gorgeous,’ Ariadne says right back at him. Eames chuckles.

‘Yeah, well, so’s your face.’

‘If either of you breathes a word about anyone’s mom,’ Arthur says, cuffing Eames gently around the ear, ‘I will not hesitate to murder you slowly.’

‘You can’t murder me.’ Eames nips tiny bite marks into the skin of Arthur’s neck, and Ariadne feels Arthur twitch helplessly in response. Eames purrs into Arthur’s ear: ‘You’re far too hard right now to murder anyone.’

‘I am never too hard to murder you,’ Arthur fires back. Eames catches Ariadne’s eye and she gives up trying not to laugh.

‘Fuck you both,’ Arthur says, and catching Eames off guard he flips the other man onto his back. Eames flails, looks as if he’s considering fighting back, and then submits, landing up next to Ariadne. Ariadne uses the moment while Eames and Arthur are untangling themselves to wriggle out of her underpants. Arthur hooks them out of her fingers as she’s about to cast them aside. He swipes his thumb over the damp fabric at the crotch, and eyes her speculatively.

Ariadne gives up on any pretense of patience. She holds Arthur’s gaze and leans back on her elbows, opening her legs wide enough to give him a good view. In her peripheral vision Eames props himself up and cranes around to see; Arthur keeps his eyes on hers and raises his eyebrows.

‘Please?’ Ariadne does her best to pout prettily at him. Arthur appears to consider this for a moment, and then,

‘With pleasure,’ he concedes. There’s a tiny catch in his voice which betrays his eagerness, but the real giveaway is when he arranges himself between her thighs and goes straight for her clit, bypassing the sort of teasing, near-but-not-near-enough games he normally plays. Ariadne swears and writhes, not quite sure if she needs to get _more_ or needs to back off. It’s almost too much, going from no touch at all to Arthur’s tongue flicking over her, swift and demanding.

Eames leans over and turns her head to face him. His kiss steadies her, a slower, simpler counterpoint to the frantic pace Arthur has set. Ariadne clings to him, kissing him sloppy and fervent. For all that they’ve been _looking_ at one another all night, for all that they’ve been both wrapped around Arthur like some kind of cocoon, this is the first chance she’s had to kiss Eames tonight. Ariadne is determined to enjoy it, but Arthur is unrelenting with her and when he slips one finger inside her, the shudder which runs through her wrenches her free of Eames’ mouth and drops her flat out on the mattress. Eames doesn’t seem to mind: he works his way down her jaw to her neck and nips at it like he had Arthur’s. Tiny nips won’t leave a mark but leave her gasping, frantic, pushing her hips up into Arthur’s mouth for more, more of anything and everything. Arthur hums appreciatively against her clit and Ariadne quivers and whimpers and Eames hums matching pleased noises into her skin.

What does it for Ariadne, what brings everything to a crashing, shaking climax, is the freakish sense of timing Eames and Arthur have between them. Eames, who is a wonderful, wonderful man, props her up just far enough to unclasp her bra and wriggle it free of her arms. He traces faint, teasing patterns across the skin of her breasts and around her areolae, one after the other, as Arthur slides his one finger deeper inside her and crooks it up. Ariadne shudders between them, wordless, tugging on Arthur’s hair and digging her nails into Eames’ shoulder. They time it just right: Arthur gives her a second finger, pressing up on the sensitive spot just inside her and sucking hard on her clit at the precise moment that Eames pinches her nipple sharply. Ariadne grabs Arthur by the back of his head and holds him in place as she comes, hard, spasming around his fingers and bucking up into his mouth until the touch of his tongue on her skin hurts. Eames splays his hand across the quivering muscles of her lower belly and applies himself to the offended nipple, lapping at it gently until she pushes both men away. She nestles into the duvet and thinks, with no particular feelings of guilt, that if they haven’t stained it beyond repair yet, the boys will soon.

‘I think we broke her,’ Arthur says, kneeling up in the vee of space between Ariadne’s legs. Ariadne regards him blearily. There are smears all down his chin. Eames is looking at her, too, his expression a mixture of fond amusement and self-satisfaction.

‘Your fault,’ he says, to Arthur. Ariadne thinks that she should probably do something, but honestly, she’s too comfortable to move right now.

‘You’re too dressed,’ she tells Arthur. Arthur looks down at himself, half-hard and in entirely too much underwear, and, with a faintly abashed glance at Eames, removes his briefs and casts them aside. Ariadne watches Eames’ eyes widen slightly as Arthur’s cock comes free, not fully hard but standing out from his body promisingly.

‘Ladies first?’ Eames asks.

‘You go ahead,’ Ariadne says, honestly still too boneless and fuzzy-headed to be of any use to anyone. Eames flashes her a quick grin, and kneels up to kiss Arthur, licking the taste of Ariadne from his face. Arthur’s hands are all over Eames in a heartbeat, and Ariadne lies back, enjoying the sight of long fingers spread out on Eames’ broad back and peach-clad ass. Eames moves to strip the panties off, but Arthur growls and slaps his hands away.

‘Like them?’ Eames purrs, into Arthur’s ear.

‘Eames,’ Arthur says, staring down at Eames’ cock straining against the damp cotton, ‘I’m going to make you come in them.’

Even Ariadne can see Eames twitch at that. ‘Bet you can’t,’ Eames fires back, wriggling out of Arthur’s arms and sprawling back on the bed next to Ariadne. ‘Come on then,’ he says, when Arthur just looks down at him.

‘Turn over,’ Arthur says tersely. Eames looks like he might refuse, but he rolls over to lean on his elbows with his ass in the air. He wiggles it in Arthur’s direction.

‘Stop showing off,’ Arthur says, and smacks Eames lightly on the ass. Eames’ eyes go wide and he draws a quick, shocked breath. A look of pure delight dawns on Arthur’s face.

‘You like that, do you?’ He runs his hand gently across Eames’ ass. ‘All dressed up in pretty panties and you want me to spank you, is that it?’

Eames fairly shoves his ass into the air, the tendons on his forearms standing out as he strains for leverage. ‘Fuck, Arthur, yes, fuck.’ Before Eames has finished his garbled plea Arthur brings a solid slap down on his ass, the sound muted just a little by the cloth between skin and skin. A second follows quickly behind it, and a third and fourth. Eames’ hands clench and unclench in frantic fists until Ariadne turns onto her belly beside him and twines her fingers between his.

‘This isn’t coming in my knickers,’ Eames gasps, when Arthur gives him a moment’s respite. Arthur hums thoughtfully and takes hold of Eames’ thighs, rearranging his position a little. Then he leans down and _bites_ at Eames’ ass, through the cotton fabric. Eames whimpers, and turns his face toward Ariadne, close enough to kiss. She leans in and bites at his lips, over and over again while Arthur bites at his ass and Eames grips her hands until they’re both white-knuckled.

‘Bastard!’ Eames hisses, pulling away from her mouth. ‘You can’t just -’ he shudders and closes his eyes, dragging in a deep breath. Ariadne leans back and has to peer under Eames’ heaving body to get a proper view of Arthur, who’s lying on his back now. He looks faintly ridiculous, Ariadne thinks, but something clenches inside her anyway at the sight: Arthur with his mouth pressed up against Eames’ balls, Eames cock trapped in cotton fabric mere fractions of an inch away from Arthur’s nose.

‘Cheating,’ Eames huffs. Arthur sucks his balls into his mouth, panties and all. ‘You’re not winning this easily,’ Eames threatens, and then shuts up, his whole face creasing with concentration. His lips are swollen and, Ariadne notes with a faint sense of shock, bleeding slightly.

‘Look at you both,’ Ariadne murmurs as Arthur works his way up the straining line of Eames cock and Eames hips jerk wildly. Arthur’s eyes are closed and he worries desperately at the fabric between him and Eames. ‘Hard to tell which of you wants it more.’

‘Him,’ Eames says, with absolute certainty. Arthur doesn’t bother answering, just slaps the back of Eames’ thigh and then pulls Eames down harder against his mouth. They go on like that for a while: Arthur making little cock-hungry humming noises as he mouths at Eames through his panties; Eames shaking and breathless, squeezing the blood out of Ariadne’s fingers. He’s almost at the point of no return, she knows him well enough by now to know that - although she’s never seen him on the edge like this, strung out for long minutes at the time, and she wonders why the hell that is because he’s fucking _gorgeous_.

She leans in and whispers in his ear, little nothings about how gorgeous he is, about how blissed-out and wanton and absolutely beautiful Arthur looks between Eames’ legs. How they’re making her wet and hot all over again. How much she’d like to come again, how she’s already come once and Eames hasn’t come at all: how desperate he must be, how much he needs it, how fantastic it would be to just let go and come all over his poor, abused panties.

‘Fuck you,’ Eames says, his voice wobbly but his meaning clear. ‘You’re supposed to be on my side.’

Ariadne affects a wounded look and tries to pull her hands away, but Eames must suspect foul play because he keeps them tightly captive. She licks up the shell of his ear to feel him shudder, and tries again. ‘Eames,’ she whines, and it was meant to be feigned but it comes easily and there’s a sudden truth to it. ‘Eames, Eames, I need my hands back...’ Her hips are shifting of their own accord against the bed and she _does_ need her hands back. She watched and waited the first time for one of them to get his hands on her but she hasn’t the patience for that a second time. ‘Eames, I’m so... I need to touch myself, Eames, please.’

That does it: Eames groans and relaxes his grip on her hands. She means to do something with them, really she does: tweak his nipples or scrape her nails down his back or play with his ass. But Eames watches her as she wriggles one hand under her body, pressing hard up against her clit: his eyes go wide and he stutters, ‘Fuck, Ariadne...’ And then Eames is shaking and Arthur is making muffled noises of triumph, something like ‘yes, Eames, come for me’.

‘Fuck you,’ Eames says - no, squeaks, all high and broken as he comes. Ariadne shoves two fingers inside herself and ruts against her own wrist, hard and artless - one crook of the fingers inside and she follows him over the edge. It’s rapid, fluttering spasms this time, nothing akin to the shattering climax at Arthur and Eames’ hands, but it’s warm and pleasant and exactly what she needs. She keeps rocking against her hand, slowing down as Arthur shoves Eames back over onto his back and peels the sodden, sticky panties away from Eames’ cock.

‘Time to claim my winnings.’ Arthur smirks at Eames and Ariadne both, before he lowers his head to lick the mess up from Eames’ softening cock.

Eames tangles his hand in Arthur’s hair. ‘Yeah, ok, you can keep winning then,’ he says, roughly. Arthur just hums his self-satisfaction into Eames skin.

When Arthur straightens up a moment later his hand goes straight to his cock, fully erect and leaking just a little. His eyes drift closed as his hand drifts across the skin, and he draws a shaky breath. ‘Guys, I...’

Eames props himself up on his elbows. ‘What next, Arthur?’

Arthur looks uncharacteristically confused. ‘I... hadn’t thought this far,’ he admits. ‘I just...’

Eames and Ariadne exchange looks, even as Ariadne scrambles to her knees. Eames sits up and shuffles forward, pressing kisses to Arthur’s belly; Ariadne comes around behind Arthur and slips her hand in with his, around his cock. Arthur lets go, using his hands to balance himself against Eames’ shoulders instead.

‘Eames?’ Ariadne asks, as Arthur’s legs start to tremble and Eames uses his hands to steady him.

‘Ariadne?’ Eames grins up at her.

‘Why _are_ you wearing ladies’ underwear?’

‘Verisimilitude,’ Eames says. ‘Character study, if you like.’ Something crosses over his face, a shadow of uncertainty. Ariadne quickly reviews what she knows of Stefan Lessing, their current mark, and his taste in women.

‘I see.’ Ariadne leaves a trail of kisses across Arthur’s shoulder as she talks. ‘And the character under study today would be a bit of a tart, desperate enough to come in her pretty little panties?’ Pretty, but plain. Saucy-librarian panties.

Eames licks across one of Arthur’s hipbones. ‘Maybe,’ he allows.

‘Oh, hell,’ Arthur says, low in his throat, cock impossibly hard in Ariadne’s hand. She speeds up her stroke and he throbs for a moment and then comes, all over Eames’ neck and collarbones. ‘Oh, _hell_ ,’ he says, again, and adds, when he’s gathered his breath: ‘you two will be the death of me.’

Ariadne reaches down to swipe a hand through the mess on Eames’ chest. ‘Quit whining,’ she says, fondly. ‘You’re a very lucky man.’

Eames smiles up at them both. ‘Whose idea was this? Whichever of us came up with it, they deserve a raise.’

Arthur snorts. ‘Oh, yes. You fancy explaining to Rodriguez why our prices have suddenly gone up?’

Ariadne peels herself away from Arthur. ‘Yeah, let’s not,’ she says. ‘Wasn’t it my idea?’

‘Nonsense,’ Eames says, ‘it was mine.’

Arthur leans down and licks a clean stripe up Eames’ chest. ‘Children,’ he says. ‘Who decided we were all working together from now on?’

Shaking her head, Ariadne slips off the bed and into the bathroom, leaving Eames to Arthur’s dubiously tender mercies. The extent of Arthur’s devious forethought, she thinks as she sits down to pee, should never be underestimated. Was he pursuing Eames as much as he was her, or merely certain that Eames would come to them? She could feel put out about that, about not being the sole object of his intentions; but she’d hardly have a leg to stand on, given that she’s been screwing Eames this whole time.

When she emerges from the bathroom, Arthur has his trousers back on and is somehow managing to look elegant while draping his long frame sideways across the small armchair by the TV. Eames is... fiddling with electric cables? Ariadne grabs hold of Arthur’s nearest foot and kisses it almost absently. Eames emits a crow of triumph and stands back, and the little kettle makes a happy humming noise to itself.

‘Tea, Eames?’ Of course, tea. What else? Eames twinkles unrepentantly at her and rummages about in the tiny cupboard for cups. A wash of simple affection settles over Ariadne, and she pads the two or three feet between them to wrap her arms around Eames’ waist and kiss him. Nothing wanting about it, just the fact that Eames is so irrevocably _Eames_.

Eames stares down at her, mugs dangling from his fingers by their handles. There’s something in his face: not confusion, exactly, but surprise, certainly. He puts the mugs down carefully on the bench, and then scoops her up in his arms and _squeezes_ her around the middle, kisses her swiftly and sets her down again.

And that, Ariadne realises, is the first time she’s kissed Eames without the promise of fucking him. Eames looks like he might say something, but just hands her a mug and looks faintly abashed.


End file.
